


Apocalypse

by hartstrings



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, First Kiss, Pre-Battle, Reachman!HoK, Readying for Battle, Requited Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: There is one last thing to do before the door to Mankar Camoran's Paradise can be opened. Martin realizes that even if they succeed against the impossible, his world is ending. The Hero of Kvatch realizes the same. The hours before battle bring out truth.
Relationships: Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Apocalypse

Martin was no warrior.

That was exceedingly clear, as he struggled to breathe in his ceremonial armor. Baurus put him through his paces, running laps around the walls of Cloud Ruler Temple. The air he gasped for was cold, shocking his lungs - a sharp contrast to the sweat running down his skin under the mail and plate. His cuirass chafed as they sparred, his arms longing for greater ease of movement with every failed parry he made. Baurus smiled at him at the end of each training session, said some remark about Martin’s improvement - but he knew it was a lie.

A farmer’s son he was, but his labour was meant for tilling fields, planting seeds. Martin was a scholar at heart. They could put all the plate they wanted on him - it’d merely be a cage. For all the frustration he had, for all the dread starting to grow within him at his lack of skill - it was the bargain he had struck.

They were to open a Great Gate. Within was the last key to Mankar Camoran’s sanctum, and there was only one he knew that could enter an oblivion gate and return to tell the tale.

Vaka. Bodyguard, confidante, friend - Hero of Kvatch, woman of the wilds. Again and again he had sent her out in search of pieces to the puzzle, terrified each time that it would be the last he saw of her. Now they were to risk everything - Bruma, Tamriel, _her_ \- and now Martin refused to stay locked away in the temple.

It had been an argument that could have shaken Cloud Ruler’s foundations, but at last Jauffre acquiesced - on one condition. A flanking guard of the best Blades in the Empire, and the armor that had protected countless Emperors before him.

_But not the last._

A small price to pay, for the chance to ensure that if nothing else Vaka made it into the Great Gate alive.

Martin repeated it in his head with every new sparring match, wishing it was her running drills with him rather than Baurus. She was blunt, always told the truth no matter how much it’d sting - she’d critique the way he held his blade, laugh at him when he stumbled - but her eyes would glimmer and he’d laugh too, and perhaps she’d lean a tad too close when helping him back to his feet and he’d -

Each time Baurus took advantage of his mind being elsewhere, and each time the practice blade bit into the few places Martin’s armor did not protect. Dull the blade may have been, it still left bruises Martin could count when soaking in his bath at night.

Time grew shorter. Vaka had sent word that Countess Valga had promised a hundred of Chorrol’s soldiers to Bruma’s defense - not nearly enough, nothing would ever be enough - but it would have to do. The last of Cyrodiil’s counties had been plead with, all the allies they could muster gathered - and so Martin counted down the days it took to make the journey down the Orange Road, desperately excited to see her again and terrified from the knowledge of what it would mean.

It was months ago that she’d set Sanguine’s Rose in front of him, completely unaware of what it had meant - her brows only lofting a fraction when he’d let slip he’d once possessed it himself. He should have known then, with the petals reflecting fragments of candlelight back onto her face, splashes of light scattered amidst her freckles. He should have known that in the end his heart could not handle such duty, that for all his simple robes and bland meals he could not run from what he was.

Martin _wanted._ He’d overcompensated for it, tried to keep their touches brief, but with every brush of his fingertips over hers when she handed him yet another artifact the desire in him raged more fiercely than any fires of Oblivion. At first it frightened him - worried he’d drag her down with him into the comfortable void, caring for nothing but pleasure. Yet as time wore on, as they were kept apart for longer and longer it became clear to Martin that his desire was very different than before. He didn’t want to consume - he wanted to _join_. To grow into something new with her. Something all their own, something good.

Something that could not exist while he was Emperor.

The battle within him felt like it could rival the battle that awaited him. Selfishness versus selflessness - if she felt the same as he, Martin didn’t know if he’d be able to make the right decision. Abdication was impossible - it put all of Tamriel at risk, whatever pact Alessia had made an age ago flowing through his very veins. An Emperor needed heirs, heirs that could not be questioned - to be mothered by a convicted criminal was an unspeakable concept as far as the powers that be were concerned. Mistresses were common - Martin himself was the product of such a union - but he couldn’t do it to her. Vaka was an outsider, it was in her blood as much as Akatosh’s pact was in his. For all her virtues, for all her deeds the common folk were wary around her. To make her status as _other_ official, to have her as a guilty secret… no.

Martin’s last training sessions with Baurus were brutal, the turmoil in his mind put into the swings of his blade. At last he could understand, if only a fraction, the fever with which he’d seen Vaka fight.

It was early morning when she at last returned. There was no letter, no word - he’d have missed her entirely if it wasn’t for his habit of conducting his morning meditations in the front garden of the Temple. Something about the Jerall Mountains gave him peace. Ice fog hung in the air, the sunrise turning the world pink and gold - and into it her dark figure stepped, tiredly leading her mare into the stables, both steed and rider looking as if they hadn’t slept the entire ride from Chorrol. 

Their eyes met, and that desire - that _longing_ \- he’d been so desperately trying to quell returned in force. He offered her a gentle smile, she gave him a weak nod - and then she was retreating into the barracks. Martin felt her absence as soon as the door had shut behind her, longed for their usual exhausted banter, but he did not follow her. She needed what rest she could get, for soon she’d be walking into the heart of Oblivion itself.

The day saw Bruma’s citizens evacuated into the keep, Savlian Matius offering his insight from the siege of Kvatch. Martin aided them as best he could, desperate for something to do, some way to make a difference. He knew that if they failed all the stone walls in the world could not save the citizenry from Oblivion’s fury, that every bedroll he softened would be little comfort as flames scorched the castle walls - and still he tracked down chairs for old women, still he let children into the pantry to feast on the sweets within. Countess Carvain didn’t seem to mind - she smiled when she caught him, and his own returned smile faltered when he realized that if everything went well it was she he might end up walking down the aisle at the Temple of the One.

A perfect match, on paper.

Martin’s world felt like it was collapsing around him - the foundations of the life he’d found after Kvatch built on strife and struggle, on the ever encroaching end of the world and the fight against it. With victory would come a loss he could not describe.

 _You don’t realize they’re the glory days until they’re gone._ Baurus had said that once, the sole time Martin had seen him in his cups.

He left Bruma and hurried back to Cloud Ruler Temple, weaving between rows of tents that had sprung up outside the city walls with the arrival of forces from Cyrodiil’s eight counties and the Imperial Guard itself - a city of their own, canvas whipped by the wind drifting down from the north. By nightfall it’d be a blizzard.

It didn’t matter. Daedra felt nothing, least of all the cold.

The moment he returned to the Temple he was ushered to his chambers. The ceremonial armor was spread out across his bed, and Martin knew the time had come. Jauffre gave him the blessing of Akatosh, anointed his armor. Incense burned. The sun was setting, orange-gold light spilling through his window, the watercolor sky beyond. Soon it’d be red as blood - how sharp Kvatch still was in his mind, how the brimstone still lingered in his nostrils.

He disrobed, changing into the heavy quilted clothing that was to be the barrier between his skin and cold metal. Baurus picked up the chain shirt and lifted it over his head - Martin exhaled as it dropped onto his shoulders, rings jingling and polished to a shine. Jauffre stayed to observe for a moment, watching Baurus start the arduous process of fastening on sabatons and greaves - but mercifully he was called away on some more urgent task. Martin’s anxiety was rising with every passing minute, and Jauffre’s expectant eyes helped him little.

Baurus paused when the door slid closed, waiting for Jauffre’s retreating footsteps to fade before speaking. “Is everything alright, sire?”

Martin blinked down at him. “Do I seem ill at ease?”

“I can’t tell the difference between steel and your calf.” Baurus answered, tightening one of the straps on Martin’s greaves to accentuate his point. “You’re tense. More than circumstances warrant. That’s not good. Remember our drills?”

“Trees that don’t bend in the wind break. I know.” Upon reflection it was the truth - Martin hadn’t realized he was gritting his teeth, but he had been - for long enough that his jaw was vaguely sore. “I’m sorry.”

Baurus rose to his feet, the rest of the armor forgotten, and for a moment Martin thought he was going to scold him. Instead he reached out and patted him on the shoulder, the sensation dulled through Martin’s chainmail. “I’ll go get her.”

“Her?”

“Yeah, her.” Baurus shook his head, as if who he spoke of was obvious - and it _was_ , though Martin was hesitant to admit it. “You’ve both been tense as bowstrings. If I know the two of you, I figure being able to talk before we march to our doom might help.”

It was becoming all too real, and Martin tried to swallow his fear. “What about the armor?”

Baurus looked at him flatly. “I’m going to chalk that one up to nerves, sire. Come on. You think she doesn’t know how to gear up? I’ve seen what she can do. You’ll be in safe hands.”

_Safe hands. Her hands._

Martin visibly swallowed, and Baurus’s gentle smile turned sad.

“Would you like me to get her, sire?”

“If she wishes to.” Martin tried to keep his voice even. It was the eve of the end - of the entire world, or just his world. There was no one else he’d rather spend it with.

“Very well.” Baurus dipped down into a short bow from the waist, and soon his footsteps too faded down the hall.

Martin turned his attention to his window, the Jerall Mountains rising magnificently in the distance, their snowy slopes turned gold by the setting sun. Fat snowflakes had begun to fall, slow and fluffy as feathers. Unhurried, drifting with the wind - he longed to be one, now that all hopes of such a life were darkening.

Minutes ticked by until he heard a noise from his bedside. Martin snapped his gaze over to see Vaka standing by it, one of his cuisses in hand. He hadn’t heard her come in, but then she was always silent - far too quiet for someone of her stature, a skill borne of a life hiding from others. She was already kitted out - chainmail under her green tunic, her legs and arms clad in thick leather. A simple braid hung over her shoulder, her long hair woven into one as ever.

A familiar sight. A comforting one. It was her turn to smile at him.

“Did I scare you?”

“As if I don’t have enough reasons to be frightened.” Martin huffed, but he couldn’t keep himself from smiling back at her. “Did Baurus interrupt -”

“I’ve been ready to go since supper.” Vaka said dismissively, walking over to him and kneeling where Baurus had. “Can’t stand the waiting. They’re trying to let the boys from Chorrol get their strength back, run in fresh.”

“Ah.” Martin replied, suddenly unsure of what to say. He’d spent weeks fretting over her, and now there she was - leaning forward and setting the cuisse plate over his left thigh. For a moment all words he could say caught in his throat, her hands looping around him to tighten the plate’s straps. 

She seemed to note his distress, for she gave the plate a reassuring slap once it was properly fastened on. The metal rung dully. “Baurus said you’d lost your nerve. You shouldn’t. This is good craftsmanship. A daedroth couldn’t peel it open.”

“It’s not the daedroth I’m worried about.” he murmured, finding his words at last.

Vaka looked up at him, and for what was far from the first time he puzzled over the color of her eyes - green and brown and gold, all the colors of the forest, ever rippling like the shadows of the leaves. “No. I suppose it isn’t.” she agreed as quietly as he’d spoken the statement. She stood to retrieve several other pieces of his armor, and the two of them fell silent for several moments more.

It was when she was fastening on his knee plate that he realized that her hands, usually so sturdy, were shaking. He could hear the metal vibrate against the plate he already wore, silenced when she looped the leather strap through its buckle and pulled it tight with prejudice. He watched her check over every join carefully, running her finger along seams in the metal as if searching for weakness.

“If Jauffre saw you doing that he’d be insulted.” Martin observed dryly. “That’s Akaviri craftsmanship, you know.”

“It’s old. Besides, it’s not the craftsmanship I’m checking. It’s the fit.” Vaka stood again, walking back to the bed to retrieve the breastplate. 

“Have I gained weight?” Martin joked, knowing the opposite was the case - he’d been soft when he arrived from Kvatch, but sleeplessness and lack of appetite from his studies had made his robes hang loosely about him indeed. He rambled on as she settled the breastplate over his shoulders, the weight of it settling across his hips. “I’ve heard rumors that men of the past were smaller than the men of today-” 

Vaka leaned forward to tighten the fastenings, and she was so tall that the slight bend of her knee to do so brought the side of her face dangerously close to his. He could smell her hair - mossy and deep, like the earth after a rainfall - and he was seized by the sudden urge to pull out the ribbon tying her braid so he could run his fingers through it.

“No.” she answered, either not noticing his sudden silence or choosing to ignore it. Her voice was whisper quiet, but she didn’t need to raise it - not with her so close to his ear. “But if the fit is off, you have to change how you fasten things. Or the armor will shift - when you move, when you take a blow. A mistake could kill you.”

Vaka leaned back, her hand snaking up to the gap around his neck. Her fingers hooked under it, brushing the exposed skin of his neck. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and she frowned.

“I forgot the padding for the gorget.” she muttered. “I’m sorry. You’re not the only one who’s lost their nerve.”

This time when she moved to retrieve the neck guard from the bed Martin followed her. She nearly dropped it when she turned around to see him so close.

“After Kvatch, the Mythic Dawn Shrine, Sancre Tor, Miscarcand - I’ve never seen you frightened.” he observed quietly. “Angry, frustrated - yes.” The corner of his mouth nudged upward in the ghost of a smile - her temper was a terrifying thing to behold, but it was a righteous thing, too - beautiful to see. “But never frightened. You’ve done such great things - this is yet another.”

Vaka stared at him for a moment, then set the neck guard aside with a scoff. “I know I’ll be fine.”

“Then-”

“Your Blades haven’t told you, because this is what they live for. What they’ve trained for.” Vaka interrupted - she wasn’t making eye contact with him now, and suddenly her fear was contagious - crawling over him, drowning out his own. “Protecting you. Dying for you. And failing. They’re ready for it more than ever, now that they’ve seen it can happen.”

“I don’t understand.”

“To hold a life in your hands is a rare thing.” Vaka whispered. “To have that trust. I’ve spoken no vows, I haven’t trained for any possibility. In Kvatch I knew you only as a favor I owed to a dead emperor. The shrine, Sancre Tor, Miscarcand - it was only me.”

“Vaka.” he murmured. “There was still so much at stake-”

To his surprise she laughed, a bitter thing. “If I failed there, I would have died. A blade to the throat, to the gut - might have taken a while, but I’d be gone, far away from here. But if I take too long in that gate, if something goes wrong while I’m inside, if someone out here makes a mistake - I come back to your corpse.”

At last she looked him in the eye, and he saw the reason for her dodging his gaze - they shone, drops starting to form on her lower lashes. Her thick brows quivered, as did her jaw - he knew her enough to know she probably wanted nothing more than to hit something, to direct it all elsewhere.

He knew her well enough to know that attachment frightened her. Vulnerability frightened her. At last, like all the pieces to Mankar Camoran’s sanctum, his understanding of her fell into place.

Vaka did not fear death, nor loss.

Save for him.

Martin spoke before he could think, seized by a kind of madness. “You won’t.” 

Vaka shook her head. “You can’t know -”

He silenced her when he set his palm on her chest - over her heart, his palm covering the amulet of Kynareth she wore. Perhaps he was hallucinating, but he could have sworn her could feel her heartbeat under the armor. “I’ll kill every daedra in Oblivion if it means you’ll come back to me.” 

The sun dipped below the horizon. A moment of silence passed, the wind outside starting to howl - and then her hands curled around the edge of his breastplate and pulled him toward her.

Vaka’s lips crashed down upon his, and everything he’d locked away over the past months came tumbling out. A groan escaped him, and her lips opened in response - he learned the taste of her, stunned by how soft such a hard woman could be - and then he was dragging her down with him, sitting on the edge of the bed with her straddling his lap, and his hands wandered - trying to map her through the armor, desperately trying to know her before she was taken from him once more.

Her fingers were in his hair, cradling his head toward hers - her cheeks were wet from tears, she was trying to get as close to him as he was to her, the armor a barrier between them and a constant reminder of what was to come. Martin didn’t want it to end, he wanted to kiss her forever, wanted to hold her close to him, wanted to wake up to the morning sun with her at his side. Suddenly all he had known with her wasn’t enough, only the surface of what she was, what they could be - and if he could he’d spend all the ages discovering what he only just then understood existed.

The world was ending, and they hadn’t enough time.

As suddenly as she kissed him, Vaka pulled back sharply. Martin leaned forward, trying to chase her lips, but stopped when he realized how fast she was breathing. Through half lidded eyes he could see her own darting about, pain obvious within them - and then she slid back, out of his lap.

“I-” she started, mouth trembling.

“Vaka.” he exhaled her name like a prayer.

She stood there quivering, gaze flickering from his face to the intricate carvings of his armor, settling on the red diamond upon it - the sigil of a bloodline he never asked for, a duty he never wanted, and he knew exactly where her thoughts were leading before she spoke.

“I overstepped.”

“Never.”

There was a twitch in her jaw, and then she was leaving - he rose to follow her, but she moved too quickly, her legs were longer than his and she hadn’t plate to slow her. The moment she pulled open the sliding door to the halls of Cloud Ruler Temple he knew that the dream had ended - a glimpse into what could be but never would.

Cyrus was standing guard at the end of the hall, taken aback as Vaka stormed past him. “Ma’am?”

“Send for Baurus.” she barked over her shoulder. 

Martin approached the doorway of his room, the phantom sensation of her lips on his still lingering. She took a side door out into the howling storm beyond.

Carried on the wind he could swear he heard the cries of daedra.

His world was ending.

He could never go back.


End file.
